


Hey Little Boy, Would You Like A Ride?

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Bondage, M/M, Religion, Teen Romance, Underage Sex, all you need to know, idk man mostly this is sex and enjolras tops, parking-lot-behind-the-church-sex, sort of idk, sort of not really again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire are going to hell and they're doing it from the backseat of Grantaire's car after Mass. It's probably worth it. (It's definitely worth it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Little Boy, Would You Like A Ride?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chlorineandcoffeestains (AdrenalineRevolver)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrenalineRevolver/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I Didn't Sleep Through Mass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/717169) by [chlorineandcoffeestains (AdrenalineRevolver)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrenalineRevolver/pseuds/chlorineandcoffeestains). 



> For dearest chlorineandcoffeestains who requested birthday porn in her Bare-esque E/R 'verse, so here we are. Enjoy~

Shutting Grantaire up has become one of his favorite activities.

It's not an easy task, which makes it all the more appealing. There's nothing that Enjolras enjoys more than a good challenge, except maybe fucking his boyfriend's mouth, but even then he's not silent. Anything that makes his blood boil, anything that brings an angry flush to his pale skin and a spark to his eye - and Grantaire can do that better than anyone. He's proven it.

He's proving it now, gasping and swearing and shamelessly groaning as Enjolras licks insistently into that filthy mouth, claiming it with aggressive thrusts of his tongue. He twists his fingers in dark curls and _yanks_ and that draws a beautiful noise that's nearly inhuman from bruised lips. Breaking away, his mouth is never idle, pulling his head back to bare his neck and bite a column of magma-red marks down to the impassable border that is the v of his t-shirt. There will be bruises tomorrow, more lasting than the sensation of their tongues dragging together in frantic teenaged lust, and with that firmly in mind he pushes him back and clambers on top of him, slamming the door shut without even looking.

He doesn't mean to let Grantaire catch his breath but he does, and he grins up at him in that half-reverent lust that Enjolras swears he could copyright.

The older boy's chest heaves below him, that same wily tongue darting pink and wet to smooth the tingling from his lips. Seventeen, really? Sometimes Enjolras forgets that both of them are still so young, especially R who could speak like a poet if he wanted to and drinks like his father before him, if not more. He winks one dark fuck-me eye, pupils huge and quivering with excitement, and trails his fingertips down the blonde's sides while his beautiful, filthy mouth curves into an infuriating smile.

"Sex before lunch? And in the parking lot. Real classy, Enjy," but his voice is still choked and breathless and Enjolras wants to fuck him raw right here in the backseat of his car.

"Shut up," he huffs in return, and maybe he'd normally be a little cleverer with his words but right now... He pulls himself away and fumbles with his belt, biting his tongue and giving it another try, thoughts disorganized and spinning with teenaged lust. "Stay still, Jesus Christ."

"Using the Lord's name in vain," Grantaire ticks off smugly, his hips arching up eagerly as Enjolras tugs at his pants. Denim chafes on his leg hair and is discarded, along with Enjolras' white polo, on the floor behind the passenger seat.

“You're the one sexting me during _Mass-”_

“Yes, but you expect that from me.”

“Fuck you.”

“I dare you.”

Enjolras is more than willing to take that dare.

This is crazy. Everything is crazy when it comes to Grantaire, crazy in the most satisfying way, like pieces that fit together just so except in a far lewder manner than the saying implied. He's never wanted sex before, or so much, and he's never met another gay boy before and here he is closing his mouth around his cock in the parking lot behind the church, tasting salt and sex and _ugh,_ those hands in his hair, _fuck-_

It's absurd how good he is at this already, or at least, R says so. But R seems like he knows what he's doing - more than Enjolras, anyways, far more because his experience is limited to one shameful night when he was twelve years old in the privy at school and he doesn't talk about it.

Ever.

And anyways, weeks of regular (more than regular) sex in every feasible crevice have left him sinfully familiar with his mouth, his tongue, his hands, his _cock_ so heavy on his tongue, pulsing, and he remembers that R probably knows way more than he does because the boy just doesn't have boundaries like a normal human being, and Enjolras would never dare to open his browser history for fear of the things he might find. R gives pretty fucking amazing head, actually, and he's a great teacher.

He's the one who'd taught Enjolras how to do _that_ with his tongue, and how to swallow around his head until he's jerking and swearing above him, one hand tight in golden curls, nearly kneeing his boyfriend in the face.

With a wince and a glare, aforementioned blonde sits up abruptly and prizes his fingers away. Grantaire has the decency to look apologetic.

“ _Don't touch my hair,”_ Enjolras had snapped the first time he'd tried his little trick. And Grantaire had obliged, then, though not without complaint.

“ _So sorry. Does Ken need another tube of hair gel now?”_

“ _It's not that much- you know what? Fuck you.”_

“ _God, please.”_

Hmm... that seemed to be a theme, actually. He'd have to look into that.

But right now is not the time, because right now Grantaire is already panting a little beneath him and his chest feels deliciously tight in this position, looming over him, straddling his waist and without thinking he loosens the tie still hanging from his neck (red- the color of desire, as R had dubbed it in an ecstatic gasp as they rutted together for the first time on Enjolras' rickety bed) and slides it off, measuring it in his hands.

He purses his lips, finally saying, “Alright, that's it. Hands up.”

The other boy's blue eyes widen but he's quick to obey. As snarky as he could be, they both knew that Enjolras was in charge in this relationship. Especially when it came to things that happened behind closed doors. (and tinted windows, in this case)

Enjolras doesn't let himself pause and think about the potentially dangerous territory he was about to plunge headfirst into. They'd never discussed these things before, never set any boundaries, and he was feeling bold with the rush of adrenaline and testosterone in his veins so why not test them out? R had been a willing participant thus far-

willing may be an understatement-

and now did not prove to be the exception. His throat works, eyes continuing to widen as Enjolras leans over his lithe body stretched out on the gray polyester to wrap the silky fabric around both wrists, pulling tight, knotting it like a Boy Scout.

He'd expected a comment on that, honestly, because Grantaire never missed a chance to tease. But none is forthcoming.

R stares up at him like he's just seen the face of God in his cerulean eyes and Enjolras would find that unnerving if he wasn't so goddamn hard.

“Lube?” he asks impatiently, as though Grantaire isn't having a religious crisis over the newest development in their sexual relationship. He's got one hand curled around his throbbing dick and the other planted on Grantaire's hip, as though he doesn't trust him to stay still. (he doesn't) Swallowing again – God willing, Enjolras is going to give him a _massive_ hickey right on his Adam's apple one day, right where everyone can see – the older boy nods to his jeans, taking what sounds like a distinctly shaky breath.

“Back pocket."

"You really are depraved, aren't you."

"You have no idea."

And there's that curve of his mouth again, the one that makes Enjolras want to just pin him down and press their bodies as close together as they can and bite the smile from his lips forever. But he has more pressing matters to attend right now, like how sensitive the head of his cock is becoming, and how tight he knows Grantaire will be when he comes, and that's enough to have him swooping down and fumbling for the mostly-dry tube Grantaire has probably been keeping in his pocket for weeks now in preparation for just this sort of opportunity.

There's been a shocking number of them, hence why they're going to need to buy a new one soon. Enjolras is pretty sure it's his turn. He hates when it's his turn.

Grantaire is too busy writhing against the brief friction of Enjolras' belly against his cock to so much as snicker at him for his uncharacteristic enthusiasm. It's... interesting, to say the least. Intriguing. Worth persuing...

He wonders how far he can take this.

"Whatever happened to foreplay, Apollo?" R gasps as the blonde presses two slick fingers between his legs with a challenging quirk of his eyebrow. He spreads them without hesitation, hitching one leg around Enjolras' waist and pulling him closer, as close as he can without disrupting the slow glide of the first finger violating him.

"It died and went to hell." He rolls his eyes and curls it, satisfied with the way R closes his eyes and screws his face up like an irritated cat.

"Oh, how nice of it to pave the way."

"You think you're funny."

Everything is so easy between them now, it baffles him. Enjolras is new to relationships and new to sex and new to just about anything, but Grantaire gives him confidence that he usually has to fake and an appetite for this sort of thing that he should probably be ashamed of. Something about the fact that God is probably watching from the part in the clouds above them only serves to make him hornier.

There has got to be something wrong with that. Grantaire is rubbing off on him...

Grantaire  _wishes_ he were rubbing off on him. He wriggles and arches, his arms still locked over his head, and as a second finger spreads him open he gives a long, low, unabashed moan that that mother of nine getting into her car can probably hear from across the lot. They aren't the subtlest of pairs.

Enjolras really couldn't give less of a fuck right now.

He watches his face intently, watches every little hitch of his breath and the way he mouths the words that he thinks Enjolras won't see - "please" and "God" and "mother of Christ" and most of all "fuck" because as articulate as he can be, that's still Grantaire's favorite word. It's fairly appropriate, too, considering the circumstances. Grantaire _yields_ beneath him, like this is what he was made to do- to wrap himself around Enjolras fingers, his cock, his tongue that one time, to draw him in and wring the orgasm from him. Tight heat squeezes around three of his fingers now, right down to the knuckle, and Grantaire is velvet inside and he can imagine his cock, hard and dripping, beign squeezed there instead, the friction unbearable-

He needs to stop  _right now_ before he comes early and never hears the end of it.

"Flip," he mutters, a command if there ever was one, and Grantaire lights up. He struggles to disentangle himself - Enjolras is refusing to remove his fingers, though that's to be expected, the way his muscles are taut with tension and eyes burning with blue desire. Now, on his knees with his cheek pressed to the plasticy seat and Enjolras breathing over his hole, he could probably die happy.

"When's the main event, again?" he asks breathlessly as those fingers are removed. From this position it's hard to look back and see what's happening, his wrists bound tight above his head and his fingers grasping at the ledge of the window as though this will help. The snick of the cap and the involuntary noise in the back of Enjolras' throat as he takes himself in hand, smearing cold lubricant down the length of his bare cock, is more than enough for his overactive imagination.

Enjolras glares weakly down at him. R is a fantasy, helpless and waiting (impatiently) for him to take him and pound him into the seat of his own car. It's hard to be angry with him when all of the heat in his body is being sucked into a concentrated pool in his gut, making him shiver and buck his hips the moment their skin touches.

"For someone who was just complaining about the lack of foreplay-"

"You know you should never take me seriously, right?" He can feel the smirk in Grantaire's voice without even looking and his hands clamp down around the brunet's hips, resisting the urge to take a fistful of those wild curls and  _pull_. 

The arc of his back would be so goddamn perfect.

"Just fuck me," Grantaire groans as the slick head of his cock slides between his cheeks and Enjolras nearly bites his tongue off keeping himself from growling an obscene reply.

 _Just fuck him_ and he makes a grand attempt at it, he really does. He spreads him open and marvels dizzily at the sight of him gaping and ready before thrusting forward, choking on whatever he'd meant to say as he slides inside. Sodomy is his favorite sin to commit, that's all he can think, and then the church in clear view of the dashboard fades to static in the back of his mind as he's overwhelmed with  _tight, fuck, Grantaire_ and Grantaire is clenching deliberately, that little shit, clenching around him until his knees are ready to buckle, ready to just press him down and slam into him like an animal.

The thing is, Grantaire would probably be really into that, and Jesus this is so not the time to be making decisions like that-

Somehow his hand finds it's way around to the front of him, releasing it's bruising hold on his right hip to take a hold of his leaking prick the way he would his own and stroke him lazily, not at all in time with the movement of his hips. They're  _seventeen_ and he's not the best at this, not the most coordinated - Enjolras privately thinks that maybe Grantaire would be better at it but he's afraid to ask, afraid to want it - and definitely doesn't have the best stamina because his thighs are already hard and tight with the anxiety they get right before he comes.

Still, he holds out - they find a messy rhythm, the kind that goes hand in hand with impromptu unprotected sex after church on a Sunday afternoon, and Grantaire _whimpers_ when he finally does pull his hair but he has to let go, unable to balance without a grip on his hip. The windows really ought to be fogging up because the inside of his car feels stifling, the walls closing in around them, or maybe that's just tunnel vision because  _God_ he's so close, he's so close his cock is pleading with him to just let go and with a wordless moan he quickens his pace, R pushing his hips back with insistent little noises until -  _nnnnnggh -_ he comes, buried deep inside him, and finds himself collapsing onto his back as the orgasm shocks through his body.

A few moment's of desperate panting, struggling to catch his mind up with his muscles (which seem to have melted into a consistency somewhat like butter, but he's not aware enough yet to think up a real simile), Grantaire wriggles against him and manages to slip his wrists out of the knot over his head. He turns over, careful not to dislodge the blonde sprawled on top of him, and hands it back to him with a cheeky smile.

"What're you grinning about?" Enjolras mumbles, narrowing his eyes. He's not too far gone to be suspicious.

"Nothing. Thanks for the new comestain, though. My car needs some personality."

Grimacing, Enjolras heaves himself up despite R's whine of protest and peels himself away. His stomach is sticky with secondhand sperm and he huffs, flicking his nose as he dips down and reaches for his shirt.

"Take me home," he demands, pulling it over his head and leaning off of him to give him room to sit up. Grantaire follows the motion with a lewd grin.

"Only if it's for round two," he purrs, and damn, he really shouldn't be aloud to sound so arousing less than five minutes after round one. Enjolras closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as his heart pounds against his ribcage. Overhead, the clouds have disappeared completely. In plain view of God he fumbles to get dressed and licks his lips, bitten bloody.

"Fine. Fine. Just fucking drive."

"Love it when you're bossy." He clambers over the stick and into the driver's seat, not even bothering to put on his pants, with the possibly the cockiest expression he's ever worn. It looks good on him. Better than sarcasm and self-deprecation. Enjolras, fully dressed, lies down in the backseat on top of Grantaire's paint-speckled jeans and makes a half-assed, too-late attempt to be inconspicuous as they pull out of the lot. He knows he's still red-

 _the color of desire_  

\- but he also knows that Grantaire prefers him red over any other color.

"I'll _repay_ you for the ride."

They break the speed limit three times on the way home.


End file.
